


Batrachomyomachy

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Established Relationship, Fluff, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Oral Sex, Springlock Exchange Fic, Vocabulary tests, Word Games, manual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1546634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock helps John improve his vocabulary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Batrachomyomachy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShinySherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinySherlock/gifts).



> For the Springlock Fic Exchange: 
> 
> shinysherlock asked: Pretty please, I would very much like a ficlet in which Sherlock teaches John the word "callipygian" (having shapely buttocks). You choose context, rating, etc. Thank you!
> 
> Hope you enjoy it dear! 
> 
> Many thanks to [Essbee](http://get-stiles.tumblr.com) for her invaluable beta, [Kate](http://pictures-to-prove-it.tumblr.com) for never ending encouragement, and [The Antidiogenes Club](http://antidiogenesclub.tumblr.com) for the push to get this finished on time!

“Honestly, John, I’m not sure how you maintain any readership at all. Your phrasing is stilted, you omit all the interesting case details, and your vocabulary is absolutely juvenile.” Sherlock lazed fretfully on the sofa, dressing gown twisted around his hips and shoulders. John scowled in Sherlock’s direction from his comfortable chair, but the detective hardly noticed.

“You yelled ‘laterz’ at your brother in Buckingham Fucking Palace, Sherlock. I’m not sure you’re quite in the position to be critiquing anyone else’s vocabulary.”

“Of course I am in the position, John,” Sherlock flung himself up to sitting with very little grace. “Your infernal blog is about _me_. It damages my reputation if people believe you to be completely unintelligent!” He huffed, scrubbing ridiculous fingers through even more ridiculous hair, a pout on his lips.

John bit back a biting rejoinder and went for the crux of the issue instead. “Bored, are we?”

“Incredibly,” Sherlock choked out, dolefully. “That doesn’t make your vocabulary less abhorrent, though.” He slumped uneasily on the sofa, arms splayed out beside him like a ragdoll’s. He was so soft, so vulnerable looking in his distress, and the dazed look on his face put John in mind of various other soft vulnerabilities. He grinned to himself, sliding his laptop to the side table with care and stripping efficiently out of his cardigan. The shirt he’d leave on; with the addition of buttons, he could keep Sherlock’s brain occupied for an extra three minutes or so.

John moved quickly and easily into Sherlock’s space, crowding him back against the sofa and climbing into his lap. He straddled Sherlock’s slim thighs easily, pinning Sherlock’s arms with his knees. Sherlock’s eyes widened as John leaned in to whisper against his skin.

“Would you like to play a game, Sherlock?” John ghosted hot, wet breath over the sensitive shell of Sherlock’s ear. The abrupt inhale Sherlock took did nothing to camouflage the intense want crashing over him. John could see it, a physical sensation, as Sherlock’s brain switched gears from “ _push-fight-win_ ” to “ _kiss-fuck-own_.” _Good,_ he thought, _want looks good on you._ “Because I would very much like to end this asinine sulk of yours.”

“Well, I do have a tendency toward batrachomyomachy.”

John hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing at his lover as he attempted to parse the meaning from context. Sherlock pulled his hands out from under John’s knees and rested them easily on his chest instead, bright spots of warmth through the thin fabric of his button down. John shivered at the touch, the solid weight of it, the memory of those hands on his body so many, many times before…

“Well, that was a tough one to begin with,” Sherlock grinned brightly, shaking John out of his lusty reverie. He put-on a wide, fake smile. “Let’s start with something simpler, shall we?” Sherlock’s hands slid to the placket of John’s shirt, slowly unbuttoning it. “You’ve never been particularly perspicacious, but I’m sure you’ll catch on soon.” His eyes flashed with a challenge as he paused, one button halfway through its hole. For a long beat they sat there, a moment stretching out between them like warm breath in cold air.  
“You want me to guess,” John cottoned on, brow furrowed. “You want to give me a bloody vocabulary test instead of having sex. This is-”

“Positive reinforcement, John. Not instead of. In addition to,” Sherlock’s shark smile was out in full force as he held the button just where it was, caught both in and out of its place.  “Your word is ‘perspicacious,’ as in, ‘John takes ages to catch on to simple mental exercises because he is not very perspicacious.’”

“Just how brilliant do you think it is to be telling your lover he isn’t very smart?” John ground out and ground down, rolling his hips against Sherlock’s. The fake smile faded as Sherlock’s jaw dropped and a hushed, breathy noise escaped him. The button popped through, followed by a second, a third, a fourth, all the way down the placket.

“Technically,” Sherlock physically gathered himself, drawing up straight between John’s arms, “it means ‘discerning,’ but given the situation, I’ll give you a pass.”

“Ta for that,” John rolled his eyes. “What’s my next word, then?” He squirmed in Sherlock’s lap. His jeans grew tight, but he made no effort to get comfortable. It seemed like cheating. Instead, he pressed wet, sloppy kisses to Sherlock’s neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin there.

“Your accismus is incredibly transparent, John,” Sherlock quipped back, head lolling to the side to give John room to work. “You obviously want to play as much as I do.”

“Ah,” John hummed as he rocked back and forth, cock straining against his jeans. The seam was a harsh drag against heated flesh but at least it was something. “Transparent means see-through. That one was easy.” He winked. Sherlock huffed.

“Obviously your word is accismus, John,” he snapped sulkily, hands fisting in the lapels of John’s shirt. John grinned and pressed a kiss, just a small one, to the side of his mouth.

“Accismus, then. Don’t suppose it means ‘must kiss,’ eh?” John laughed at Sherlock’s pout. “Ah… well, if it’s transparent that I want to play and accismus means… what, the opposite of that? Then, what… reluctance?” John screwed up his face thoughtfully. “Fake reluctance?”

“A feigned lack of interest, yes,” Sherlock smiled and rewarded him with a thorough kiss. Their lips met easily, confidently, just as they had hundreds of times before, but excitement still burned through John’s veins at the touch. Sherlock hummed against John’s mouth, a small, happy sound, and pushed his button down off his shoulders, revealing the sharp jut of his collarbones under his thin vest. The vest came off next, coming up over John’s head easily as Sherlock lowered his mouth to the join of John’s neck and shoulder. He sucked, hard, and arousal shot through John’s body as he rolled his hips down against Sherlock’s, searching for friction. Sherlock groaned against his shoulder, a hot vibration of that gorgeous voice over sensitized skin.

“Fuck, Sherlock, yeah, feels good,” John panted, rubbing his clothed erection against the tented front of Sherlock’s thin pajamas.

“Graggirnd,” Sherlock said, muffled against the skin of John’s neck. John laughed at the feel of it, at Sherlock’s desperate words against his scarred shoulder and the way Sherlock’s tongue darted out to taste the skin in the dip of his clavicle. He wound his fingers lovingly into Sherlock’s curls and gently eased his head back.

“Was that a word or are you going non-verbal?”

“Gradgrind,” Sherlock growled, lifting his hips to roll up against John’s. His eyes caught John’s and his face went soft around the edges as he elaborated, “As in, Greg Lestrade likely thinks I am a gradgrind, but I am no machine for John Watson.”

“Well, unless you mean a fucking machine, and then-”

Sherlock cut him off with biting kiss and John was grateful for it. Lust-addled and painfully hard, he bit back, sucking on those sumptuous lips, grinding down to the rhythm Sherlock set with his hips.

“Give me the definition, John,” Sherlock rasped against his mouth, and then pushed him back. The sight of him, lips kiss-swollen and pink, a hot flush on his cheeks and up his neck, made something ache in John’s gut. A good ache. A possessive ache. John trailed his fingers over those lips, down his neck, to the collar of his worn grey t-shirt.

“Gradgrind. It’s a noun. And apparently it means something like machine, which you are patently not,” John’s voice was quiet and confident as he tugged Sherlock’s shirt up, up, over his head. Sherlock acquiesced, but collected himself enough to raise an eloquent eyebrow at John’s lack of an answer. “Someone… someone not like you,” John continued, running his mouth gently down Sherlock’s neck, bending to lick the skin over his breastbone. “Someone who isn’t warm, like you. Someone who isn’t responsive like you. Someone who doesn’t make me crazy like you do.” He sucked one nipple into his mouth, tonguing it carefully, lightly, just the way Sherlock liked it. Sherlock’s head bounced ungently against the back of the sofa.

“Fine, ah, yes… someone who is only interested in cold, hard fact,” Sherlock shot John a small grin, genuine and sweet. “So, yes, not me. Not really.”

John scooted backward, trying to reach further down Sherlock’s ribcage with his mouth, and fell abruptly off Sherlock’s lap into a heap on the floor. The ache in his tailbone did nothing to stifle his laughter as blood rushed to his face, turning it a shocking red. Sherlock did his best to giggle quietly, at least, biting his bottom lip to keep the sound from spilling out.

“Well, it’s unfortunate that you aren’t more steatopygic, John. Could have saved yourself some bruises.”

“Ah… graceful?” John pushed himself up off the floor with a grunt and dusted off his arse. Christ, it hurt. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist, pulling him in and digging careful fingers into the aching flesh.

“Put very simply… fat-bottomed,” Sherlock grinned, pressing a kiss just to the left of John’s navel. Sherlock’s nimble fingers popped open the button at John’s waist, pulled the zip quickly and efficiently down. They hovered, flitting carefully over his waist in teasing little brushes of callouses and fingertips. The brief touches sent goosebumps over his skin, and John pushed himself more firmly into Sherlock’s hands. “I am fortunate, though, that you are rather callipygian.” With great care, Sherlock slid John’s jeans and pants down over his hips, down his thighs. He held them there at John’s knees, trapping him as surely with verdigris eyes as he did with restrictive fabric. Hot breath washed over John’s rapidly hardening cock, but Sherlock didn’t bat an eye; he focus was, as ever, on John as a whole, not John in parts.

“Is that… is that my word, then? Callipygian?” John struggled to pull air in through his nose, to keep his legs steady under that gaze.

“What does it mean, John?” Sherlock ran his hands up the backs of John’s thighs, over the small, rounded curve of his arse. He rubbed small circles into the flesh with the pads of his fingers, pulling gently to spread his cheeks, then pushing them back together. John slid his hands into Sherlock’s hair, not pulling, just clinging gently.

“Well, if stayo- steata - if the other one meant fat, then I’d say callipygian means… thin?”

Sherlock scooted forward, trapping John’s legs between his knees, and kissed slowly down John’s hip. His teeth scraped gently at the hipbone. His tongue skimmed careful and soft over the lightly furred meeting of thigh and groin. He snuffled his nose affectionately at the hair leading from John’s navel to his now-straining cock. All the while, his hands worked ceaselessly at John’s arse: kneading, pushing, pulling, rubbing. One dry finger skated briefly over his hole and John shuddered, rocking forward unconsciously.

“Try again, John,” Sherlock smiled, a teasing glint in his eye, as he kissed at John’s stomach and thighs.

“Okay, ah… not thin, then-” John cut off with a groan as Sherlock sucked a dark bruise over the soft flesh of his side. Sherlock pulled back, grinning, and gave the mark a chaste kiss. “If not thin, then something else… pleasant? Ah, attractive. Does callipygian mean attractive?”

Sherlock squeezed his arse more forcefully, large hands covering the majority of his flesh, and the memory of those hands around him, inside him, made John’s breath catch in his throat. His cock stood untouched and leaking as Sherlock’s mouth swept over every inch of skin except right where he needed it.

“Think, John,” Sherlock said against his skin, and squeezed again.

“Nice arse?” John tugged easily on Sherlock’s hair until those gorgeous eyes met his own. “Did you just use a fancy five syllable word to tell me I have a _nice arse_?”

Sherlock grinned as he swung John bodily back toward the couch, pushing him easily onto his back.

“Callipygian,” Sherlock grinned, placing a smacking kiss on John’s sternum. “Having-” a kiss to his abdomen, “a well-” to his navel, “- shaped-” to the small tuft of dark blond pubic hair, “- buttocks.” John expected it when Sherlock slid his mouth down in a hot, wet, filthy suck, enveloping his cock in the best way. He expected it, but that didn’t make the sight any less arousing, the feeling of that gorgeous mouth around him any less satisfying.

“Christ, Sherlock, yes,” John choked out, one hand fisting in his own hair, the other gripping tightly to the edge of the sofa. Sherlock pushed forward, getting John’s legs up over his shoulders, and John rubbed encouragingly at his back with one rough heel. The rhythm Sherlock set was perfect: long and slick, steady pacing, intense suction when he pulled up, the swirling of tongue as he sank back down. One hand toyed absently with John’s bollocks, squeezing gently in time with his upstroke in a way that made John’s toes curl. John felt them drawing up already, the intense pleasure of Sherlock’s mouth after so much teasing far more than he could bear. He shut his eyes, allowing the sensations to build in the trembling of his legs, the ache of his chest, the wet push of Sherlock’s tongue against his head. With one hand, Sherlock dragged his thumb down over John’s perineum to circle at the puckered flesh of his hole, while the other deftly stroked the base of John’s erection.

His orgasm crested with a quiet moan, punctuated by the bliss of feeling Sherlock swallow around his softening cock. Within moments, Sherlock was kissing his mouth, hand working furiously at his own erection between them. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s, guiding his quick, short strokes until he spilled over John’s stomach, pajama pants still clinging to his hips. With a contented sigh, Sherlock eased himself down between John’s body and the back of the sofa, carefully avoiding the mess. John grunted, but when Sherlock kissed him, he held nothing back: affection, want, the ridiculous desire to laugh. Sherlock smiled against his lips, and for a few minutes they just lay there, basking in the glow.

“Kalopsia,” Sherlock whispered, threading his fingers through John’s. John pulled their clasped hands up to his mouth, kissing each of Sherlock’s fingertips as he waited quietly for his clue. “As in, I am certain I must have kalopsia, as I in no way deserve this satisfaction.”

John sat still, parsing, for a moment before shaking his head.

“I can’t imagine anything good that you don’t deserve, Sherlock.” The words were soft in the warm air between them. Those dear sentiments came so much easier now than they did at the beginning, but still, John wanted to keep them contained, secrets that only he and Sherlock would share.

“Kalopsia: the delusion of things being more beautiful than they are,” Sherlock squeezed his hand tightly, kissing the back of John’s palm. “Surely this is a happy daydream of a life. Nothing... real is this good.”

John pulled Sherlock on top of him again, holding him close and pressing kisses into his hair. Sherlock smiled distantly and pulled back, resting his forehead against John’s.

John spoke lovingly, a finger’s breadth from Sherlock’s mouth: “So says the man without come drying on his stomach.”

 

Later, after showers and cups of tea, more laughter and a thorough checking of John’s arse for bruising, John quirked his head toward his lover and asked, “What was the first one? The first word you said, at the beginning of the game?” Sherlock grinned from his position curled up in his armchair, dressing gown situated around him like a cape.

“Batrachomyomachy, or, a fight over nothing.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Kalopsia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1577957) by [QuickLikeLight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight)




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